Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.A Visit.“A good place to rest in,” Fidelia Marsh was saying to herself, as she passed with her friend Nellie Austin under the great elms whose boughs met over the one long street which makes the larger part of the inland town of Eastwood. “A good place to rest in,” she repeated, when the chaise drew up before the door of the large house which was her friend’s home.The house was one of the great square homesteads, built in the early days of the Commonwealth, and it stood in the morning sunshine just beyond the flickering shadows of the elm-trees in the street. It stood at a point where two ways met; and the south door opened on the wide road that led away to the hilly country beyond, and there were great elms there, too, to cast their shadows over porch and doorway when the room grew hot. A wonderful old grape-vine covered the porch, and there were lilac and locust-trees and rose-bushes by the white fence which enclosed a smooth green yard on three sides of the house. Beyond was a garden with fruit-trees and tall hollyhocks and great bunches of phlox, and a row of bee-hives facing the south; and that was all that Fidelia saw before she passed into the porch, to meet a kindly welcome.Only at the last moment had she accepted her friend’s oft-repeated invitation to visit her in her home, and she had accepted for the same reason which had made her refuse it before. It was for the sake of Eunice. Fidelia had done well at the seminary during the summer term as far as study was concerned. She had done “splendidly,” her classmates declared with admiring exaggeration; but all the same, she was beginning to think she had done foolishly—to say no worse.She had undertaken too much for her summer’s work, and had been allowed to go on with it as perhaps no other girl there would have been allowed. Study seemed so easy to her, she was so ready and strong and cheerful, and altogether so sensible, that she had been left to pursue her own way with less close oversight as to health and strength than was usual at the seminary, and she had not proved herself worthy of being trusted in that direction. She had not needed to relight her lamp when the house was at last silent, nor to study by moonlight, but she had often stolen hours from her morning slumbers, and had carried her book to her walks and into her hours of recreation, and even into the morning and evening “half-hour” which is supposed by all concerned to be given to higher things.Of course she had overdone it, and had failed at last. Or she thought she had failed, because she had at last done wearily and with an effort what she might have done easily and with secret triumph if she had been strong and well, “with all her wits about her.” She had not failed in the opinion of her classmates, or even of her teachers. She had at examinations done as well as the rest—better than most; but she had taken little pleasure in her success, and she was afraid of what Eunice might think of it all.For of course Eunice must hear all there was to tell. She could keep nothing back from Eunice, even if she would; and in her heart she knew that her sister’s thought would be, that she had missed more than she had gained by her over-eagerness to succeed. And, looking at her pale cheeks and her big eyes in the glass, she determined at least to spare her sister the pain of seeing her till she had rested awhile, and looked like herself again. So she had at the last moment written to Eunice, and had made Nellie Austin happy by coming home with her.She was heartily welcomed by all in the house, and not as a stranger. For Dr Austin had known her father and mother long ago, and Dr Everett was also a friend of his.It was a good house in which to rest—cool and quiet and well-regulated, stirred only by the mild excitement which the comings and goings of Nellie’s three young brothers made.But though Fidelia rested she was hardly content. She was not at peace with herself nor at ease in her pleasant surroundings. Nellie had many friends to see after her long absence, and went here and there as happy as a bird, but, cautioned by her father, she did not urge her friend to go with her, and for the first few days left her much to herself. Dr Austin watched Fidelia quietly during this time, wondering a little where the charm was which had caught the heart of his volatile little daughter. This pale listless girl was little like the bright scholar who had carried all before her in her classes, and whose kindness and cheerfulness had been a help and refuge for the homesick and the easily discouraged among them. But he waited patiently. She had been doing too much, and needed rest and quiet and fresh air. If her lassitude continued many days longer, then, he told his wife, he would have something to say to her.In the meantime Fidelia, half conscious of their observation of her and of their disappointment in her, was much ashamed of herself and anything but happy, and wished with all her heart that she had gone straight home to Eunice.“At home, with something to do, I should never have been so stupid. To-morrow I will find some work. It is because, for the first time in my life, I have nothing to do that I feel so good-for-nothing.”“Suppose you go a-fishing with the boys to-morrow. They will like to have you go, and it will do you good,” said a cheerful voice behind her, when she had got thus far.Fidelia rose from the doorstep, and faced the speaker. It was cousin Abby Chase, who had come into the porch, and seated herself in a low chair with a bowl of raisins in her hand.“I was just wishing for something to do; let me help you,” said Fidelia.“Well, if you would like to, I shall be glad of your help.”She took off her own spotless apron and gave it to Fidelia, and soon returned with another. Cousin Abby was a distant relation of the Austin family, who had come to live in the house in the young days of the doctor’s mother, first as help and then as housekeeper, and always as valued friend. She was an old woman now, and blest with a wisdom which does not always come with years. She was willing to place herself aside, and to acknowledge that the work which she had done so long could be done better by others now.If it had cost her anything to give up the work and the responsibilities which had filled her life for so many years, no one knew it from any word of hers. She was sweet-tempered and intelligent. She had always “loved good reading,” as she said, and within certain limits she was well read. In the course of many Sunday afternoons she had read—a chapter or two at a time—the books of such of the grand old Puritans as found a place in the doctor’s library. The “Missionary Herald” and “The Puritan” were always sent first to cousin Abby’s room, and there were few of the questions, sectional or doctrinal, discussed in the one, and few of the missionaries or mission-fields presented in the other, during the last twenty years, with which she was not familiar. In the labourers in more than one mission-field she took personal interest, and gave good help to them in many ways. Her Christian influence was felt in the family, and extended beyond it. There was no one in the town of Eastwood who held a higher place in the general esteem or who deserved it more than did cousin Abby Chase.“We are expecting company,” said cousin Abby; “and Mattie had a bigger wash than ordinary, and so I thought I’d better set to and make some cake and things to-day, to help along.”“Company?” said Fidelia, her face betraying her doubt as to the pleasure of the prospect.“Yes. We generally do have considerable company, summers, though we have been alone for a spell lately. We don’t trouble about company much. They take us as they find us mostly; but just to-day they are Boston folks that are coming, and I wish we had known it sooner. Mrs Austin had a little rather be prepared for such folks.”“You must let me help you,” said Fidelia. “I don’t know much about such things—except just plain cooking; but I can do as you tell me.”And so she did, to good purpose.“You take hold as if you knew how,” said Miss Abby admiringly.They had a long busy morning together in the front kitchen, and amidst the beating of eggs and the rolling of paste much pleasant talk went on between them. It was almost as good for Fidelia as a talk with Eunice would have been. When, later, Dr Austin passed through the room, he stopped a moment to shake his head at the array of good things which greeted both nose and eyes.“They look good, don’t they?” said Fidelia.“Y-es,” said the doctor, with a shrug. “The question is, are they wholesome?”“Oh, yes; they are the best of their kind! If they are used in moderation, they won’t hurt anybody,” said cousin Abby. “Miss Fidelia must be a good scholar if she studies as well as she works.”“Do you?” said the doctor. “Well, never mind. The work has done you good; and I hope Abby will take you in hand and find you more to do another day.”The work had really done Fidelia good. She folded her apron, and turned to her favourite seat in the south porch with a lighter heart than she had had for a long time. But her spirits fell again as she reached the door.“The company” had arrived—“and a great deal of it,” Fidelia thought, at the first glimpse of the flowing garments of a group of ladies who had just alighted from a carriage, and were lingering on the lawn. She glanced down at her faded alpaca, which had been her second-best dress during the whole of the school year, and wished herself at home.She was hot and tired after her work; and when she heard Nellie Austin’s voice calling her name, she made haste to get upstairs before she should be seen. But she could not resist the temptation to turn into cousin Abby’s room, from the window of which she could get another glimpse of the strangers.They were not all strangers. By the side of one of the ladies, carrying her parasol and shawl, walked Dr Justin Everett. But it was a different Dr Justin from him who had sat constrained and silent at his brother’s table that first night, and who had responded so gravely the next day to Deacon Ainsworth’s untimely congratulations and questions. His high head was bowed as he listened, and he responded with smiles to his companion.Then Nellie’s voice was heard again, calling,—“Faithful, my Faithful, where are you?” and what Fidelia would have liked to do would have been to hide in cousin Abby’s closet, or to run down the back stairs and take refuge in the kitchen again. She did not do either. She laid herself down on cousin Abby’s sofa, and shaded her face with a big feather fan that lay at hand. Nellie entered the room on tiptoe.“Are you asleep, Fie? Are you sick?” said she softly.“I am neither the one nor the other, though I might have dropped off in a minute or two if you had not come in to disturb me. Have you been in the front kitchen? Have you seen the nice things that cousin Abby and I have been making? I am a little hot and tired, that’s all.”“Tired! I should think so! I am ashamed that I was not here to help you. You ought to rest; but it is nearly dinner-time. And, oh, Fidelia, I wish you would put on your white dress!”“My white dress, indeed! That would be striking twelve o’clock too early in the day, my dear. I must save my white gown for Sunday. Yes, I know you want to show your friend at her best. It’s very good of you. But I shall do you more credit in my every-day wear. And, after all, don’t you think my gown looks as well as yours?”“But they have seen me before; and, besides, I’m nobody.”Fidelia laughed.“Well, I don’t feel as if I was anybody in particular. No, dear, I’m not cross. I am going to be as entertaining as possible, and do you credit. And, besides, there’s the dinner-bell. It is too late now to think of changing anything.”A pleasant surprise awaited her, and she found it easy not to be cross. Not only Dr Justin was there, but Dr Everett himself, returning home with his brother from the first brief holiday they had enjoyed together for many a year. She came into the dining-room with him, and sat beside him, and feared no stranger of them all.“Tell me about my Eunice,” she said softly, as the talk flowed on around them.“Eunice is all right. I am not sure that I shall be justified in saying the same to her about you. Are you well, child?”“As well as well can be. Yes, I got thin and pale; but so did a good many others. It is a way they have over there, towards the end of the year. I came here to freshen myself up a little before showing myself to Eunice. When are you going home, Dr Everett?”“I am going to-morrow. No, you cannot go with me. I am going round by W—, and shall not see home for two days yet.”“Oh, dear, I am sorry—that I can’t go with you, I mean! It would be a good excuse to get away—to go with you. I promised to stay ten days, but I am getting homesick.”“You had better keep your promise. Your sister has company just now, and does not need you.”“Yes, I know; but that is one reason why I should be at home. Eunice must have too much to do.”“No, she has not. It is Ruby Stone who is doing now. Don’t worry about Eunice. She is in good hands. Mrs Stone loved your sister before you were born; Eunice is all right.”There was nothing more to be said, but Fidelia was by no means sure that she would not shorten her visit; and her next thought was that she need not see much of the visitors while she stayed. But she did see a good deal of them.That night it rained. There could be no wandering under the elms by moonlight. It grew dark early, and chilly, and a fire of dry wood was made in the sitting-room, partly for the warmth and partly for brightness. The elder people gathered round it, and a great deal of pleasant talk went on among them.The visitors—besides the two doctors—were Mr and Mrs Abner Kent, their daughter Ella, and their niece Miss Avery. They were from Boston, and belonged to one of the “first families” of that chief city. They were rich—so rich that, like the king and preacher, they might have possessed themselves of “whatsoever their eyes desired.” They had done something in that direction, their neighbours were inclined to think, for they had travelled much on both sides of the sea, and had brought home many of the rare and beautiful things which only much money can buy. Miss Kent was tall and dark, with a good face; Miss Avery was beautiful—small and fair, with shining curls, and pretty, coaxing ways; but Fidelia liked Miss Kent’s face best.By-and-by several friends of the Austins came—the Rev. Mr Porson and his daughters, whom Fidelia had seen before, and others whom she had not seen. From the corner where she sat in the shadow she watched them all with great interest. She was listening to the talk that was going on between Dr Everett and the minister, but she lost nothing of all that was passing before her eyes, and all the time she was having her own thoughts about these people.They were not just like Halsey folks, among whom she and Eunice had passed all their lives. It had been said of the town of Halsey that there were more good people in it, in proportion to its population, than in any other town in the county—perhaps even in the state; and Fidelia was of course bound to believe it. But though the Halsey people might be very good, they lacked something, Fidelia acknowledged, which these people had.She thought of her friends at home, and tried to imagine one and another of them—Deacon Ainsworth and his wife, and Miss Green and her uncle the squire, sitting in the midst of these people. Eunice, with her plain dress and her plain ways, would have small chance of being understood or appreciated among them.But Fidelia pulled herself up mentally when she had got thus far. Eunice, indeed! In all that was worth knowing or being, which of these ladies could compare with Eunice?And yet it must make a difference to live such a life as most of these people lived—a life without hard work or pressing care, with time to enjoy reading, and study, and travel, with a chance to enjoy the sight of all that is grand and beautiful in nature and art. Even Eunice, good, and sweet, and superior to most people as she was—even Eunice would have been a little different in such a life.Standing at the other end of the living room, smiling down upon Miss Avery, who had touched his arm to attract his attention, stood Dr Justin Everett. Miss Avery had a request to make, it seemed, and when he shook his head, seeming to refuse it, she clasped her pretty hands, and urged it eagerly. Whether her request was ultimately to be granted or not, did not appear. In the meantime they seated themselves in the window-seat, a little withdrawn from the rest, evidently content.Fidelia could not withdraw her attention from them. She watched them with a feeling in which was both anger and pain rising in her heart. “Eunice,” she thought—“would Eunice care?” and she hated herself for thinking it, and put up her hands to hide the angry colour that she felt rising to her cheeks.“Miss Faithful,” said a voice near her, “cousin Abby says you want to go fishing with us to-morrow. Do you?”“Yes, indeed I do,” said Fidelia, rising and turning to the boy who had spoken.“You have got a new name, my dear,” said Dr Everett, who had been watching her face unseen—“a new name and a good one.”Fidelia nodded.“Amos wants to see you, if you do,” said the boy. “He is in cousin Abby’s room. Can you catch fish?”“I have done so, but I cannot boast of much skill,” said Fidelia. “I would like to try. Let us go and see Amos.”So they went together to cousin Abby’s room. It did not take long to make all necessary arrangements. The chief thing was, that an early start should be made, and also that a good lunch should be put up. Fidelia laughed at the idea of her being too tired to follow the brook—to its source even, if that should be necessary; and she quite won the hearts of the three boys by her delight at the prospect of the day’s pleasure.“Nellie ought to go,” said Amos. “She would like to go, I’m sure, but she can’t leave her company. They might go too, I suppose; but I guess city girls wouldn’t care about fishing.”“I think it will be better for us to go by ourselves to-morrow,” said Fidelia. “It doesn’t do for too many people to go fishing together.”“And girls especially. They will talk,” said Amos.Fidelia laughed. “I won’t talk. You’ll see how quiet I can be.”

“A good place to rest in,” Fidelia Marsh was saying to herself, as she passed with her friend Nellie Austin under the great elms whose boughs met over the one long street which makes the larger part of the inland town of Eastwood. “A good place to rest in,” she repeated, when the chaise drew up before the door of the large house which was her friend’s home.

The house was one of the great square homesteads, built in the early days of the Commonwealth, and it stood in the morning sunshine just beyond the flickering shadows of the elm-trees in the street. It stood at a point where two ways met; and the south door opened on the wide road that led away to the hilly country beyond, and there were great elms there, too, to cast their shadows over porch and doorway when the room grew hot. A wonderful old grape-vine covered the porch, and there were lilac and locust-trees and rose-bushes by the white fence which enclosed a smooth green yard on three sides of the house. Beyond was a garden with fruit-trees and tall hollyhocks and great bunches of phlox, and a row of bee-hives facing the south; and that was all that Fidelia saw before she passed into the porch, to meet a kindly welcome.

Only at the last moment had she accepted her friend’s oft-repeated invitation to visit her in her home, and she had accepted for the same reason which had made her refuse it before. It was for the sake of Eunice. Fidelia had done well at the seminary during the summer term as far as study was concerned. She had done “splendidly,” her classmates declared with admiring exaggeration; but all the same, she was beginning to think she had done foolishly—to say no worse.

She had undertaken too much for her summer’s work, and had been allowed to go on with it as perhaps no other girl there would have been allowed. Study seemed so easy to her, she was so ready and strong and cheerful, and altogether so sensible, that she had been left to pursue her own way with less close oversight as to health and strength than was usual at the seminary, and she had not proved herself worthy of being trusted in that direction. She had not needed to relight her lamp when the house was at last silent, nor to study by moonlight, but she had often stolen hours from her morning slumbers, and had carried her book to her walks and into her hours of recreation, and even into the morning and evening “half-hour” which is supposed by all concerned to be given to higher things.

Of course she had overdone it, and had failed at last. Or she thought she had failed, because she had at last done wearily and with an effort what she might have done easily and with secret triumph if she had been strong and well, “with all her wits about her.” She had not failed in the opinion of her classmates, or even of her teachers. She had at examinations done as well as the rest—better than most; but she had taken little pleasure in her success, and she was afraid of what Eunice might think of it all.

For of course Eunice must hear all there was to tell. She could keep nothing back from Eunice, even if she would; and in her heart she knew that her sister’s thought would be, that she had missed more than she had gained by her over-eagerness to succeed. And, looking at her pale cheeks and her big eyes in the glass, she determined at least to spare her sister the pain of seeing her till she had rested awhile, and looked like herself again. So she had at the last moment written to Eunice, and had made Nellie Austin happy by coming home with her.

She was heartily welcomed by all in the house, and not as a stranger. For Dr Austin had known her father and mother long ago, and Dr Everett was also a friend of his.

It was a good house in which to rest—cool and quiet and well-regulated, stirred only by the mild excitement which the comings and goings of Nellie’s three young brothers made.

But though Fidelia rested she was hardly content. She was not at peace with herself nor at ease in her pleasant surroundings. Nellie had many friends to see after her long absence, and went here and there as happy as a bird, but, cautioned by her father, she did not urge her friend to go with her, and for the first few days left her much to herself. Dr Austin watched Fidelia quietly during this time, wondering a little where the charm was which had caught the heart of his volatile little daughter. This pale listless girl was little like the bright scholar who had carried all before her in her classes, and whose kindness and cheerfulness had been a help and refuge for the homesick and the easily discouraged among them. But he waited patiently. She had been doing too much, and needed rest and quiet and fresh air. If her lassitude continued many days longer, then, he told his wife, he would have something to say to her.

In the meantime Fidelia, half conscious of their observation of her and of their disappointment in her, was much ashamed of herself and anything but happy, and wished with all her heart that she had gone straight home to Eunice.

“At home, with something to do, I should never have been so stupid. To-morrow I will find some work. It is because, for the first time in my life, I have nothing to do that I feel so good-for-nothing.”

“Suppose you go a-fishing with the boys to-morrow. They will like to have you go, and it will do you good,” said a cheerful voice behind her, when she had got thus far.

Fidelia rose from the doorstep, and faced the speaker. It was cousin Abby Chase, who had come into the porch, and seated herself in a low chair with a bowl of raisins in her hand.

“I was just wishing for something to do; let me help you,” said Fidelia.

“Well, if you would like to, I shall be glad of your help.”

She took off her own spotless apron and gave it to Fidelia, and soon returned with another. Cousin Abby was a distant relation of the Austin family, who had come to live in the house in the young days of the doctor’s mother, first as help and then as housekeeper, and always as valued friend. She was an old woman now, and blest with a wisdom which does not always come with years. She was willing to place herself aside, and to acknowledge that the work which she had done so long could be done better by others now.

If it had cost her anything to give up the work and the responsibilities which had filled her life for so many years, no one knew it from any word of hers. She was sweet-tempered and intelligent. She had always “loved good reading,” as she said, and within certain limits she was well read. In the course of many Sunday afternoons she had read—a chapter or two at a time—the books of such of the grand old Puritans as found a place in the doctor’s library. The “Missionary Herald” and “The Puritan” were always sent first to cousin Abby’s room, and there were few of the questions, sectional or doctrinal, discussed in the one, and few of the missionaries or mission-fields presented in the other, during the last twenty years, with which she was not familiar. In the labourers in more than one mission-field she took personal interest, and gave good help to them in many ways. Her Christian influence was felt in the family, and extended beyond it. There was no one in the town of Eastwood who held a higher place in the general esteem or who deserved it more than did cousin Abby Chase.

“We are expecting company,” said cousin Abby; “and Mattie had a bigger wash than ordinary, and so I thought I’d better set to and make some cake and things to-day, to help along.”

“Company?” said Fidelia, her face betraying her doubt as to the pleasure of the prospect.

“Yes. We generally do have considerable company, summers, though we have been alone for a spell lately. We don’t trouble about company much. They take us as they find us mostly; but just to-day they are Boston folks that are coming, and I wish we had known it sooner. Mrs Austin had a little rather be prepared for such folks.”

“You must let me help you,” said Fidelia. “I don’t know much about such things—except just plain cooking; but I can do as you tell me.”

And so she did, to good purpose.

“You take hold as if you knew how,” said Miss Abby admiringly.

They had a long busy morning together in the front kitchen, and amidst the beating of eggs and the rolling of paste much pleasant talk went on between them. It was almost as good for Fidelia as a talk with Eunice would have been. When, later, Dr Austin passed through the room, he stopped a moment to shake his head at the array of good things which greeted both nose and eyes.

“They look good, don’t they?” said Fidelia.

“Y-es,” said the doctor, with a shrug. “The question is, are they wholesome?”

“Oh, yes; they are the best of their kind! If they are used in moderation, they won’t hurt anybody,” said cousin Abby. “Miss Fidelia must be a good scholar if she studies as well as she works.”

“Do you?” said the doctor. “Well, never mind. The work has done you good; and I hope Abby will take you in hand and find you more to do another day.”

The work had really done Fidelia good. She folded her apron, and turned to her favourite seat in the south porch with a lighter heart than she had had for a long time. But her spirits fell again as she reached the door.

“The company” had arrived—“and a great deal of it,” Fidelia thought, at the first glimpse of the flowing garments of a group of ladies who had just alighted from a carriage, and were lingering on the lawn. She glanced down at her faded alpaca, which had been her second-best dress during the whole of the school year, and wished herself at home.

She was hot and tired after her work; and when she heard Nellie Austin’s voice calling her name, she made haste to get upstairs before she should be seen. But she could not resist the temptation to turn into cousin Abby’s room, from the window of which she could get another glimpse of the strangers.

They were not all strangers. By the side of one of the ladies, carrying her parasol and shawl, walked Dr Justin Everett. But it was a different Dr Justin from him who had sat constrained and silent at his brother’s table that first night, and who had responded so gravely the next day to Deacon Ainsworth’s untimely congratulations and questions. His high head was bowed as he listened, and he responded with smiles to his companion.

Then Nellie’s voice was heard again, calling,—“Faithful, my Faithful, where are you?” and what Fidelia would have liked to do would have been to hide in cousin Abby’s closet, or to run down the back stairs and take refuge in the kitchen again. She did not do either. She laid herself down on cousin Abby’s sofa, and shaded her face with a big feather fan that lay at hand. Nellie entered the room on tiptoe.

“Are you asleep, Fie? Are you sick?” said she softly.

“I am neither the one nor the other, though I might have dropped off in a minute or two if you had not come in to disturb me. Have you been in the front kitchen? Have you seen the nice things that cousin Abby and I have been making? I am a little hot and tired, that’s all.”

“Tired! I should think so! I am ashamed that I was not here to help you. You ought to rest; but it is nearly dinner-time. And, oh, Fidelia, I wish you would put on your white dress!”

“My white dress, indeed! That would be striking twelve o’clock too early in the day, my dear. I must save my white gown for Sunday. Yes, I know you want to show your friend at her best. It’s very good of you. But I shall do you more credit in my every-day wear. And, after all, don’t you think my gown looks as well as yours?”

“But they have seen me before; and, besides, I’m nobody.”

Fidelia laughed.

“Well, I don’t feel as if I was anybody in particular. No, dear, I’m not cross. I am going to be as entertaining as possible, and do you credit. And, besides, there’s the dinner-bell. It is too late now to think of changing anything.”

A pleasant surprise awaited her, and she found it easy not to be cross. Not only Dr Justin was there, but Dr Everett himself, returning home with his brother from the first brief holiday they had enjoyed together for many a year. She came into the dining-room with him, and sat beside him, and feared no stranger of them all.

“Tell me about my Eunice,” she said softly, as the talk flowed on around them.

“Eunice is all right. I am not sure that I shall be justified in saying the same to her about you. Are you well, child?”

“As well as well can be. Yes, I got thin and pale; but so did a good many others. It is a way they have over there, towards the end of the year. I came here to freshen myself up a little before showing myself to Eunice. When are you going home, Dr Everett?”

“I am going to-morrow. No, you cannot go with me. I am going round by W—, and shall not see home for two days yet.”

“Oh, dear, I am sorry—that I can’t go with you, I mean! It would be a good excuse to get away—to go with you. I promised to stay ten days, but I am getting homesick.”

“You had better keep your promise. Your sister has company just now, and does not need you.”

“Yes, I know; but that is one reason why I should be at home. Eunice must have too much to do.”

“No, she has not. It is Ruby Stone who is doing now. Don’t worry about Eunice. She is in good hands. Mrs Stone loved your sister before you were born; Eunice is all right.”

There was nothing more to be said, but Fidelia was by no means sure that she would not shorten her visit; and her next thought was that she need not see much of the visitors while she stayed. But she did see a good deal of them.

That night it rained. There could be no wandering under the elms by moonlight. It grew dark early, and chilly, and a fire of dry wood was made in the sitting-room, partly for the warmth and partly for brightness. The elder people gathered round it, and a great deal of pleasant talk went on among them.

The visitors—besides the two doctors—were Mr and Mrs Abner Kent, their daughter Ella, and their niece Miss Avery. They were from Boston, and belonged to one of the “first families” of that chief city. They were rich—so rich that, like the king and preacher, they might have possessed themselves of “whatsoever their eyes desired.” They had done something in that direction, their neighbours were inclined to think, for they had travelled much on both sides of the sea, and had brought home many of the rare and beautiful things which only much money can buy. Miss Kent was tall and dark, with a good face; Miss Avery was beautiful—small and fair, with shining curls, and pretty, coaxing ways; but Fidelia liked Miss Kent’s face best.

By-and-by several friends of the Austins came—the Rev. Mr Porson and his daughters, whom Fidelia had seen before, and others whom she had not seen. From the corner where she sat in the shadow she watched them all with great interest. She was listening to the talk that was going on between Dr Everett and the minister, but she lost nothing of all that was passing before her eyes, and all the time she was having her own thoughts about these people.

They were not just like Halsey folks, among whom she and Eunice had passed all their lives. It had been said of the town of Halsey that there were more good people in it, in proportion to its population, than in any other town in the county—perhaps even in the state; and Fidelia was of course bound to believe it. But though the Halsey people might be very good, they lacked something, Fidelia acknowledged, which these people had.

She thought of her friends at home, and tried to imagine one and another of them—Deacon Ainsworth and his wife, and Miss Green and her uncle the squire, sitting in the midst of these people. Eunice, with her plain dress and her plain ways, would have small chance of being understood or appreciated among them.

But Fidelia pulled herself up mentally when she had got thus far. Eunice, indeed! In all that was worth knowing or being, which of these ladies could compare with Eunice?

And yet it must make a difference to live such a life as most of these people lived—a life without hard work or pressing care, with time to enjoy reading, and study, and travel, with a chance to enjoy the sight of all that is grand and beautiful in nature and art. Even Eunice, good, and sweet, and superior to most people as she was—even Eunice would have been a little different in such a life.

Standing at the other end of the living room, smiling down upon Miss Avery, who had touched his arm to attract his attention, stood Dr Justin Everett. Miss Avery had a request to make, it seemed, and when he shook his head, seeming to refuse it, she clasped her pretty hands, and urged it eagerly. Whether her request was ultimately to be granted or not, did not appear. In the meantime they seated themselves in the window-seat, a little withdrawn from the rest, evidently content.

Fidelia could not withdraw her attention from them. She watched them with a feeling in which was both anger and pain rising in her heart. “Eunice,” she thought—“would Eunice care?” and she hated herself for thinking it, and put up her hands to hide the angry colour that she felt rising to her cheeks.

“Miss Faithful,” said a voice near her, “cousin Abby says you want to go fishing with us to-morrow. Do you?”

“Yes, indeed I do,” said Fidelia, rising and turning to the boy who had spoken.

“You have got a new name, my dear,” said Dr Everett, who had been watching her face unseen—“a new name and a good one.”

Fidelia nodded.

“Amos wants to see you, if you do,” said the boy. “He is in cousin Abby’s room. Can you catch fish?”

“I have done so, but I cannot boast of much skill,” said Fidelia. “I would like to try. Let us go and see Amos.”

So they went together to cousin Abby’s room. It did not take long to make all necessary arrangements. The chief thing was, that an early start should be made, and also that a good lunch should be put up. Fidelia laughed at the idea of her being too tired to follow the brook—to its source even, if that should be necessary; and she quite won the hearts of the three boys by her delight at the prospect of the day’s pleasure.

“Nellie ought to go,” said Amos. “She would like to go, I’m sure, but she can’t leave her company. They might go too, I suppose; but I guess city girls wouldn’t care about fishing.”

“I think it will be better for us to go by ourselves to-morrow,” said Fidelia. “It doesn’t do for too many people to go fishing together.”

“And girls especially. They will talk,” said Amos.

Fidelia laughed. “I won’t talk. You’ll see how quiet I can be.”

Chapter Five.A Day’s Fishing.An early start to Smellie’s Brook was accomplished, and in circumstances even more favourable than had been anticipated. Dr Everett had risen early and breakfasted with the fishing party, and he volunteered to drive as many as could “pile in” to the double buggy to the nearest point on Smellie’s Hill that could be reached on wheels. The elder boys were inclined to refuse the offer; but the doctor said,—“The fields are wet with dew, and the lunch-basket is heavy; and you must consider that you have a lady with you.”“Well, I guess we’d better go in the buggy a part of the way,” said Amos, the leader, after awhile.The dewy fields would not have been agreeable to walk in, but they were beautiful to see, and so were the woods, into which after awhile the narrow road took them. The boys’ eyes were quick to see and their ears to hear, and the sights and sounds of the early morning were not lost upon them. Fidelia was silent, but her spirits rose as she listened to the talk between the doctor and the boys; and she laughed as merrily as any of them before they reached Smellie’s Hill.“If you don’t feel as if you were going to have a good time, Fidelia, you can drive back again with me, and let the boys go on alone,” said Dr Everett, as he stopped at the steepest part of the hill to let the boys alight.“Go back with you! No, indeed! Iamgoing to have a good time. I feel better already.”“You look better. I am glad you came. And look here, little girl, don’t you worry about Eunice. Don’t you know that nothing in the world can hurt Eunice? If there is any room for anxiety between you, it is Eunice who might worry about you. But she doesn’t, and need not, I hope. At any rate all is well with Eunice.”A shadow fell on Fidelia’s face, and her eyes drooped beneath the doctor’s glance.“Yes; she tells me she is pretty well now, but—”The colour which the morning air had brought to her cheeks deepened as she looked up and met the doctor’s eye, but she said no more, nor did he. They had by this time reached Smellie’s Hill, and the doctor was going no further.“If I had had time to think about things, I believe I should have taken the day and gone with you to the brook,” said he, as the boys were taking basket and rods from the buggy.“Oh, couldn’t you possibly come?” said Fidelia eagerly; and the boys joined their entreaties to hers. It was not to be thought of, however, for he “was due elsewhere.” They watched him as he drove down the hill, and he would have smiled if he had heard all that was said of him before they took up their baskets and rods again.Then they turned and took the path through Smellie’s pasture that leads to the woods and the rocky ledge beyond; and when they came within sound of the murmur of the brook, they hastened their steps.“Fall and spring it is like a river, though it doesn’t look much now,” said Amos, as they came in sight of it.It did not “look much” truly. A brooklet winding its way among rocks and stones, over which one might leap or even step at most places, but with here and there a pool which looked dark and deep enough to be the hiding-place of many a speckled beauty. And they had good proof of this before the day was done.It was a good day for Fidelia; in the success and in the enjoyment she had a full share, though she acknowledged to herself that she did not deserve either. As the time went on she became more and more ashamed of the morbid feelings which had made her so eager to get away from the house and from all who were in it.What was the matter with her? Was she envious of those other girls, who led such easy lives and had so many advantages? Could it be that she was so utterly ungrateful as to forget how full of good things her life had been made by the sister who had had so little in her own life but labour and care for others, yet who had accepted her lot, not with submission merely, but with sweet content and cheerfulness? Was it for Eunice she was jealous? Remembering the sudden indignation which had seized her at the first glimpse she had got of Dr Justin, smiling down on the pretty upturned face of Miss Avery, she could not deny it. Even now she grew angry as she thought about it.Would Eunice have been angry if she had seen them? Had she suffered very much in giving up her happy prospects long ago? And afterwards, when she knew that another had taken the place in Justin Everett’s home which ought to have been hers, had she suffered? Had she forgiven him, or had she forgotten him? They seemed to be friends now—she knew that from her sister’s letters: would they ever be more than friends? That would be the right ending, Fidelia thought, but the thought did not give her unmixed pleasure.“I should lose Eunice,” she said to herself; “and I am not sure that I like her Dr Justin very well.” And then she laughed—“I am getting on pretty fast, I think. Well, I can wait. Eunice will tell me at the right time if there be anything to tell. I won’t worry about her. Dr Everett is right. Nothing in the world can hurt Eunice much. I only wish that I were like her.”Did she really wish it? She was not sure, and she was not ready to consider the question at that moment.All these thoughts had been passing through her mind as she followed Amos along the margin of the brook; and when they stopped at Big Rock to arrange where each one was to go, not one was more eager and pleased with the prospects of the day than she.The sky became overcast, which was a matter of rejoicing; the same could not be said of the threatening rain. But not enough fell to do any harm, and for fishing the day was pronounced perfect. When there are four rods, and only one basket for the fish, even moderate success tells quickly; and before Franky “guessed it was most time for lunch,” there was a good show of trout.It was decided that, to save time, they should not make a fire and feed upon the fish, but content themselves with what was to be found in cousin Abby’s basket, which they might very well do. But they forgot about saving time, for they fell into a real boys’ talk,—about hunting and fishing and adventures of all kinds, which made them forget how time was passing, and then they found that Franky had fallen asleep with his head on Fidelia’s lap.“I think we must let him have his sleep out,” said Fidelia; “you remember, cousin Abby said we must be careful not to let him get too tired. You two go away to your fishing, and when Franky wakes we will follow you up the brook.”“But it is too bad you should lose your sport,” said Ned.“He won’t sleep long. And, see, I have a book.”So the boys set off, and Fidelia had a quiet two hours with her book,—which ought to have been Butler’s “Analogy,” considering her next year’s work at the seminary, but which was “Astoria”—much more appropriate for the time and place. Franky woke rested and much the better for his nap, but indignant at being allowed to lose so much time. But he forgot his vexation in the pleasure of listening to a story Fidelia told, and which lasted till they came in sight of Amos, happy and successful as ever, but a little tired also. So they sat down to rest and enjoy another lunch, and to talk about things in general.Fidelia knew how to talk to boys. She knew every tree in the woods, and the note of every bird which chirped among the branches. She knew something about most plants that grew in field or wood, so there was no danger of falling out of talk. The boys were interested in what they heard, and each had something to tell. By-and-by Franky said—“How many brothers have you, Miss Faithful?”“Not one! I never had a brother.”“Well, they would have had good times, if you had.”Fidelia laughed—“I am not so sure. I have one sister.”“Yes, I know—Miss Eunice,” said Amos.“Yes, my Eunice. She is all I have got, and she is better to me than two or three brothers.”“Yes, I know,” said Amos, nodding his head; “I heard Dr Everett talking about her with father. Oh, no, it wasn’t doctor’s talk; only how good she is, and how much she thinks of you!”“Why do they call you Faithful?” asked Ned.“No one calls me that but Nellie, and you must ask her why.”“I suppose it is because you never shirk,” said Amos.Fidelia looked grave.“I don’t deserve it for that reason,” said she.“You know Jabez Ainsworth, don’t you?” said Amos.“Oh, yes; I have always known him! We are good friends.”“He is a smart boy, isn’t he?”“Yes, he is smart, and good, though he gets into trouble now and then. He is seventeen.”She told them an amusing story or two about Jabez—about adventures which he had had and trouble into which he had fallen when he was a little fellow, because of a determination to get his own way. She ended with an account of his last venture in taking Eunice’s garden for the summer, so as to make some money, because he “was bound to put himself through college, andbesomebody.”Amos listened in silence.“Do you suppose he’ll do it?” said Ned.“I think so. Oh, yes, he is sure to succeed! His grandfather will help him, perhaps, when he sees that he is determined to be educated. But, whether he helps him or not, Jabez is bound to succeed.”“I wonder if the hardest things aren’t the easiest after all!” said Amos. “I mean, that we don’t always care much about what we can get without much trouble.”“He means,hedon’t care about going to college,” said Ned; “but father means he shall.”“Oh, yes, I suppose I shall go! But I’d a good deal rather go West to Uncle John’s great farm.”“You can do both,” said Fidelia.“It takes five years to get through Amherst College.”“Well, you can spare them. You are young. How old are you?”“I was fifteen in May.”“Only fifteen! I thought you were older than that.”Amos looked pleased.“How nearly are you ready for college?”“I might go this fall; but father thinks I had better wait a year. I don’t care.”“I think so too—if you don’t care. Next year Jabez may go too. I only wish he had your chance—and yet I am not sure. He may do all the better for having to work his way through. But for one to have your chance, and not to care for it, that I cannot understand!” added Fidelia gravely.“My father is not a rich man,” said Amos.“No—not as Mr Kent is rich. But an education such as he is able and willing to give his boys will be worth more—if they take the good of it—than all Mr Kent’s money would be. You don’t realise, your privileges, young man.”She said a good deal more than that. Amos had heard much of it before, but somehow it sounded differently repeated by this girl with laughing lips and shining eyes, and with now and then a touch of only half-conscious scorn for the eyes that would not see and the hands that did not care to seize the chances for which others were eager to strive. Amos had not much to say as they rose and turned homewards.By-and-by they stopped to rest, leaning for a little on the crooked fence on the brow of the hill, from which more than one tree-shaded town could be seen, and many cultivated fields and rough pastures, and broken stretches of woodland, with the light of a wonderful sunset lying on them all. It was a fair scene, suggestive of peace and plenty and contentment; and, looking on it, Fidelia lifted up her voice and sang—“My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty—Of thee I sing!” and so on to the end. Amos looked up amazed, and at the second verse struck in a true boy’s second. So did Ned; and even Franky, climbing up to the top rail of the fence, tuned his shrill pipe with the rest.Of course they sang “My Country” to the tune which belongs to it—a tune which with these words, and with other words, has stirred and thrilled patriotic breasts on both sides of the sea for many a year and day. Fidelia and the Austin boys called it “America,” but on the other side of the sea it is called “God save the Queen.” They sang it there on the hill-top, with all their hearts. Then they sang “The Star-spangled Banner” and “Hail! Columbia!” as they took their way through field and wood; and more besides, till tired old ladies, rocking themselves in their chairs and taking their rest at open doors caught the sound and smiled; and boys and girls, milking their cows in pasture corners, paused in their work to listen.Tired? That was the very last thing they were thinking of as they passed the south porch, on their way to the kitchen with their fish. Fidelia nodded and smiled to the party sitting there, waiting to be called to tea, but passed on to the kitchen with the boys, where the fish was displayed to the admiring eyes of cousin Abby and the doctor.“And so Miss Fidelia did not scare away the fishes, as girls generally do?” said cousin Abby.“I guess she didn’t. I tell you, she knows how!” said Ned.“She’s first-rate,” said Frank.Fidelia laughed—“I have had a good time. I should like to go again some day.”“And why should you not? And Nellie shall go next time. I don’t believe she has had so good a time at home,” said the doctor, as his daughter came in.“Oh, yes, I have had a pretty good time! But I should like to go fishing with the boys and Fidelia next time. You feel better, don’t you, Fie?” said Nellie, as they went upstairs together; and her friend assured her that the day’s tramp with the boys had done her good.On the bed, as smooth as cousin Abby’s skill in ironing could make it, and adorned with here and there a knot of ribbon which Fidelia had not put on, lay the white dress which was “to be kept for Sunday.”“I thought I had better have it all ready,” said Nellie hurriedly, “as I thought you might be late. We are going to have company this evening—just the Newtons, and Conways, and a few others. Mother thought she would like Mrs Kent and the girls to see some of our friends, and this was the best night for them to come. I am sorry it happened so, for you must be tired—though you don’t look tired.”“I am not a bit tired. And don’t look so troubled, child. Oh, yes, I’ll wear the white gown—red ribbons and all! I’ll do my best to do you credit.”“How you talk, Fidelia! But I do want you to look nice. Father says—”But what her father said Fidelia was not to hear. A knock came to the door, and cousin Abby entered with a tray.“Doctor said Miss Fidelia had better have her tea up here, and rest a spell till the company come. She mustn’t get too tired, you know,” said the old lady, smiling.“Well, there! I might have had the sense to think of that myself, and saved you the trouble,” said the delighted Nellie.Fidelia said nothing, but she cleared a place on the table for the tray, and thanked the old lady with a kiss.“If you should drop asleep for half an hour it wouldn’t hurt you any,” said Cousin Abby as she closed the door.And, in the midst of her questioning as to why these people should be so kind to her, Fidelia did fall asleep, and woke only when, an hour later, Nellie returned ready dressed and eager to help her—“You look quite nice!” was all Nellie allowed herself to say to her friend as they went downstairs together. “Now they’ll see for themselves whether she is beautiful or not,” she was saying to herself; but she knew it would not be wise to say it to Fidelia.Of course Miss Austin had to be ready to receive their friends; and Fidelia fortunately found Amos entertaining the minister with an account of the day’s sport and the pleasures of a day among the hills.“Here is Miss Fidelia. She knows all about it,” said the boy; and they had a pleasant half-hour together.Nellie’s triumph began when Judge Newton asked her whether the tall girl standing talking to the minister was the beautiful Miss Avery they had heard so much about. More than one asked the same question.“Oh, no,” said Nellie demurely, “that is only my room-mate, Fidelia Marsh! Wait till you see Miss Avery.”And she had another little triumph when, drawn towards the piano by the exquisite touch of Miss Kent, Fidelia almost unconsciously put out her hand to turn the page of the difficult music she was playing, and kept on turning it to the end. It was the look of surprise which passed between Miss Kent and her cousin that delighted Fidelia’s friend.“You play, do you not?” said Miss Kent, rising.“Not as you play. Oh, please don’t go yet!” said Fidelia earnestly.“Sing something, Ella,” said her cousin. “Sing this”—laying a song open before her. “No, Miss Marsh. I will turn the music. You must only enjoy it.”And Fidelia did enjoy it, as she had seldom enjoyed music before; growing pale and red by turns, as the thrilling voice rose and fell. For the moment the enjoyment was perfect. When it ceased, Fidelia would have slipped quietly out of the room. Miss Kent rose.“You sing, I am sure, Miss Marsh?”“No,” said Fidelia gravely; “I do not sing.”“Fidelia!” exclaimed Nellie.“No,” repeated Fidelia; “I don’t sing. I have only just found it out.”“And what is this Amos has been telling us about your starting the echoes among the hills on your way home to-night?” said Dr Everett, who had drawn near.“Ithink you can sing,” said Amos. “Oh, yes, I can sing to please Amos!” said Fidelia, trying to speak lightly, but troubled under the eyes of those who had gathered round the piano, and more troubled still by the rush of her own vexed thoughts.“Is it envy?” she was saying to herself. “Is it pride and jealousy and discontent? Am I going to disappoint Eunice, after all? Oh, I am not good!”She did not know who proposed it, or how it happened, but in a little Miss Kent seated herself at the piano again, and the young people gathered round her, “to sing something they all could sing,”—a much more enjoyable affair to most uneducated singers than just to sit and listen to fine music. Of course they began with “The Star-spangled Banner;” and if Fidelia’s voice did not ring out quite as it had rung out to please the boys among the hills, it still caused the Boston cousins to exchange surprised glances, thus giving the watchful Nellie another moment of delight. They did not sing long, however; and when Miss Kent rose again, Fidelia moved away to the other end of the room, believing that the pleasure of the evening was over for her.But it was not. She found herself in a little listening with much interest to the minister and the judge as they discussed a question which had come up before the last ministerial association of the county, and thinking it would be something to tell Eunice about when she went home. In the midst of it a voice said,—“Miss Fidelia, I have a message for you from your sister.”“From Eunice?”—and she turned to see Dr Justin Everett standing beside her.“Yes. I went to Halsey with my brother this morning, and have only just returned. We called to see your sister on our way.”“She is well?”“That is part of the message she sent to you. She says you are not to hurry home, as my brother seemed to think you meant to do. You are to stay and have a good time. She does not need you in the least. No; that is not part of her message. But she is going with Mrs Stone to pay a visit of a week over in Northwood, and you are to stay here till that is over. She will write fully to-morrow.”“I am glad she is strong enough even to think of a visit to Northwood.”“Yes; and Mrs Stone will take excellent care of her. The change will do her good. And your change will do you good also.”“It has done me good already.”Then he gave her another message from his niece, Susie Everett, and told her several items of Halsey news; and then some one came to interrupt their talk; and then the evening went on as all such evenings do, until the guests rose to go away. And Fidelia was saying to herself, while she listened to Nellie’s remarks on things in general, that Eunice and Dr Justin were good friends again, and she was not sure whether she was glad or sorry that it should be so.

An early start to Smellie’s Brook was accomplished, and in circumstances even more favourable than had been anticipated. Dr Everett had risen early and breakfasted with the fishing party, and he volunteered to drive as many as could “pile in” to the double buggy to the nearest point on Smellie’s Hill that could be reached on wheels. The elder boys were inclined to refuse the offer; but the doctor said,—

“The fields are wet with dew, and the lunch-basket is heavy; and you must consider that you have a lady with you.”

“Well, I guess we’d better go in the buggy a part of the way,” said Amos, the leader, after awhile.

The dewy fields would not have been agreeable to walk in, but they were beautiful to see, and so were the woods, into which after awhile the narrow road took them. The boys’ eyes were quick to see and their ears to hear, and the sights and sounds of the early morning were not lost upon them. Fidelia was silent, but her spirits rose as she listened to the talk between the doctor and the boys; and she laughed as merrily as any of them before they reached Smellie’s Hill.

“If you don’t feel as if you were going to have a good time, Fidelia, you can drive back again with me, and let the boys go on alone,” said Dr Everett, as he stopped at the steepest part of the hill to let the boys alight.

“Go back with you! No, indeed! Iamgoing to have a good time. I feel better already.”

“You look better. I am glad you came. And look here, little girl, don’t you worry about Eunice. Don’t you know that nothing in the world can hurt Eunice? If there is any room for anxiety between you, it is Eunice who might worry about you. But she doesn’t, and need not, I hope. At any rate all is well with Eunice.”

A shadow fell on Fidelia’s face, and her eyes drooped beneath the doctor’s glance.

“Yes; she tells me she is pretty well now, but—”

The colour which the morning air had brought to her cheeks deepened as she looked up and met the doctor’s eye, but she said no more, nor did he. They had by this time reached Smellie’s Hill, and the doctor was going no further.

“If I had had time to think about things, I believe I should have taken the day and gone with you to the brook,” said he, as the boys were taking basket and rods from the buggy.

“Oh, couldn’t you possibly come?” said Fidelia eagerly; and the boys joined their entreaties to hers. It was not to be thought of, however, for he “was due elsewhere.” They watched him as he drove down the hill, and he would have smiled if he had heard all that was said of him before they took up their baskets and rods again.

Then they turned and took the path through Smellie’s pasture that leads to the woods and the rocky ledge beyond; and when they came within sound of the murmur of the brook, they hastened their steps.

“Fall and spring it is like a river, though it doesn’t look much now,” said Amos, as they came in sight of it.

It did not “look much” truly. A brooklet winding its way among rocks and stones, over which one might leap or even step at most places, but with here and there a pool which looked dark and deep enough to be the hiding-place of many a speckled beauty. And they had good proof of this before the day was done.

It was a good day for Fidelia; in the success and in the enjoyment she had a full share, though she acknowledged to herself that she did not deserve either. As the time went on she became more and more ashamed of the morbid feelings which had made her so eager to get away from the house and from all who were in it.

What was the matter with her? Was she envious of those other girls, who led such easy lives and had so many advantages? Could it be that she was so utterly ungrateful as to forget how full of good things her life had been made by the sister who had had so little in her own life but labour and care for others, yet who had accepted her lot, not with submission merely, but with sweet content and cheerfulness? Was it for Eunice she was jealous? Remembering the sudden indignation which had seized her at the first glimpse she had got of Dr Justin, smiling down on the pretty upturned face of Miss Avery, she could not deny it. Even now she grew angry as she thought about it.

Would Eunice have been angry if she had seen them? Had she suffered very much in giving up her happy prospects long ago? And afterwards, when she knew that another had taken the place in Justin Everett’s home which ought to have been hers, had she suffered? Had she forgiven him, or had she forgotten him? They seemed to be friends now—she knew that from her sister’s letters: would they ever be more than friends? That would be the right ending, Fidelia thought, but the thought did not give her unmixed pleasure.

“I should lose Eunice,” she said to herself; “and I am not sure that I like her Dr Justin very well.” And then she laughed—“I am getting on pretty fast, I think. Well, I can wait. Eunice will tell me at the right time if there be anything to tell. I won’t worry about her. Dr Everett is right. Nothing in the world can hurt Eunice much. I only wish that I were like her.”

Did she really wish it? She was not sure, and she was not ready to consider the question at that moment.

All these thoughts had been passing through her mind as she followed Amos along the margin of the brook; and when they stopped at Big Rock to arrange where each one was to go, not one was more eager and pleased with the prospects of the day than she.

The sky became overcast, which was a matter of rejoicing; the same could not be said of the threatening rain. But not enough fell to do any harm, and for fishing the day was pronounced perfect. When there are four rods, and only one basket for the fish, even moderate success tells quickly; and before Franky “guessed it was most time for lunch,” there was a good show of trout.

It was decided that, to save time, they should not make a fire and feed upon the fish, but content themselves with what was to be found in cousin Abby’s basket, which they might very well do. But they forgot about saving time, for they fell into a real boys’ talk,—about hunting and fishing and adventures of all kinds, which made them forget how time was passing, and then they found that Franky had fallen asleep with his head on Fidelia’s lap.

“I think we must let him have his sleep out,” said Fidelia; “you remember, cousin Abby said we must be careful not to let him get too tired. You two go away to your fishing, and when Franky wakes we will follow you up the brook.”

“But it is too bad you should lose your sport,” said Ned.

“He won’t sleep long. And, see, I have a book.”

So the boys set off, and Fidelia had a quiet two hours with her book,—which ought to have been Butler’s “Analogy,” considering her next year’s work at the seminary, but which was “Astoria”—much more appropriate for the time and place. Franky woke rested and much the better for his nap, but indignant at being allowed to lose so much time. But he forgot his vexation in the pleasure of listening to a story Fidelia told, and which lasted till they came in sight of Amos, happy and successful as ever, but a little tired also. So they sat down to rest and enjoy another lunch, and to talk about things in general.

Fidelia knew how to talk to boys. She knew every tree in the woods, and the note of every bird which chirped among the branches. She knew something about most plants that grew in field or wood, so there was no danger of falling out of talk. The boys were interested in what they heard, and each had something to tell. By-and-by Franky said—

“How many brothers have you, Miss Faithful?”

“Not one! I never had a brother.”

“Well, they would have had good times, if you had.”

Fidelia laughed—“I am not so sure. I have one sister.”

“Yes, I know—Miss Eunice,” said Amos.

“Yes, my Eunice. She is all I have got, and she is better to me than two or three brothers.”

“Yes, I know,” said Amos, nodding his head; “I heard Dr Everett talking about her with father. Oh, no, it wasn’t doctor’s talk; only how good she is, and how much she thinks of you!”

“Why do they call you Faithful?” asked Ned.

“No one calls me that but Nellie, and you must ask her why.”

“I suppose it is because you never shirk,” said Amos.

Fidelia looked grave.

“I don’t deserve it for that reason,” said she.

“You know Jabez Ainsworth, don’t you?” said Amos.

“Oh, yes; I have always known him! We are good friends.”

“He is a smart boy, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is smart, and good, though he gets into trouble now and then. He is seventeen.”

She told them an amusing story or two about Jabez—about adventures which he had had and trouble into which he had fallen when he was a little fellow, because of a determination to get his own way. She ended with an account of his last venture in taking Eunice’s garden for the summer, so as to make some money, because he “was bound to put himself through college, andbesomebody.”

Amos listened in silence.

“Do you suppose he’ll do it?” said Ned.

“I think so. Oh, yes, he is sure to succeed! His grandfather will help him, perhaps, when he sees that he is determined to be educated. But, whether he helps him or not, Jabez is bound to succeed.”

“I wonder if the hardest things aren’t the easiest after all!” said Amos. “I mean, that we don’t always care much about what we can get without much trouble.”

“He means,hedon’t care about going to college,” said Ned; “but father means he shall.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose I shall go! But I’d a good deal rather go West to Uncle John’s great farm.”

“You can do both,” said Fidelia.

“It takes five years to get through Amherst College.”

“Well, you can spare them. You are young. How old are you?”

“I was fifteen in May.”

“Only fifteen! I thought you were older than that.”

Amos looked pleased.

“How nearly are you ready for college?”

“I might go this fall; but father thinks I had better wait a year. I don’t care.”

“I think so too—if you don’t care. Next year Jabez may go too. I only wish he had your chance—and yet I am not sure. He may do all the better for having to work his way through. But for one to have your chance, and not to care for it, that I cannot understand!” added Fidelia gravely.

“My father is not a rich man,” said Amos.

“No—not as Mr Kent is rich. But an education such as he is able and willing to give his boys will be worth more—if they take the good of it—than all Mr Kent’s money would be. You don’t realise, your privileges, young man.”

She said a good deal more than that. Amos had heard much of it before, but somehow it sounded differently repeated by this girl with laughing lips and shining eyes, and with now and then a touch of only half-conscious scorn for the eyes that would not see and the hands that did not care to seize the chances for which others were eager to strive. Amos had not much to say as they rose and turned homewards.

By-and-by they stopped to rest, leaning for a little on the crooked fence on the brow of the hill, from which more than one tree-shaded town could be seen, and many cultivated fields and rough pastures, and broken stretches of woodland, with the light of a wonderful sunset lying on them all. It was a fair scene, suggestive of peace and plenty and contentment; and, looking on it, Fidelia lifted up her voice and sang—

“My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty—Of thee I sing!” and so on to the end. Amos looked up amazed, and at the second verse struck in a true boy’s second. So did Ned; and even Franky, climbing up to the top rail of the fence, tuned his shrill pipe with the rest.

Of course they sang “My Country” to the tune which belongs to it—a tune which with these words, and with other words, has stirred and thrilled patriotic breasts on both sides of the sea for many a year and day. Fidelia and the Austin boys called it “America,” but on the other side of the sea it is called “God save the Queen.” They sang it there on the hill-top, with all their hearts. Then they sang “The Star-spangled Banner” and “Hail! Columbia!” as they took their way through field and wood; and more besides, till tired old ladies, rocking themselves in their chairs and taking their rest at open doors caught the sound and smiled; and boys and girls, milking their cows in pasture corners, paused in their work to listen.

Tired? That was the very last thing they were thinking of as they passed the south porch, on their way to the kitchen with their fish. Fidelia nodded and smiled to the party sitting there, waiting to be called to tea, but passed on to the kitchen with the boys, where the fish was displayed to the admiring eyes of cousin Abby and the doctor.

“And so Miss Fidelia did not scare away the fishes, as girls generally do?” said cousin Abby.

“I guess she didn’t. I tell you, she knows how!” said Ned.

“She’s first-rate,” said Frank.

Fidelia laughed—“I have had a good time. I should like to go again some day.”

“And why should you not? And Nellie shall go next time. I don’t believe she has had so good a time at home,” said the doctor, as his daughter came in.

“Oh, yes, I have had a pretty good time! But I should like to go fishing with the boys and Fidelia next time. You feel better, don’t you, Fie?” said Nellie, as they went upstairs together; and her friend assured her that the day’s tramp with the boys had done her good.

On the bed, as smooth as cousin Abby’s skill in ironing could make it, and adorned with here and there a knot of ribbon which Fidelia had not put on, lay the white dress which was “to be kept for Sunday.”

“I thought I had better have it all ready,” said Nellie hurriedly, “as I thought you might be late. We are going to have company this evening—just the Newtons, and Conways, and a few others. Mother thought she would like Mrs Kent and the girls to see some of our friends, and this was the best night for them to come. I am sorry it happened so, for you must be tired—though you don’t look tired.”

“I am not a bit tired. And don’t look so troubled, child. Oh, yes, I’ll wear the white gown—red ribbons and all! I’ll do my best to do you credit.”

“How you talk, Fidelia! But I do want you to look nice. Father says—”

But what her father said Fidelia was not to hear. A knock came to the door, and cousin Abby entered with a tray.

“Doctor said Miss Fidelia had better have her tea up here, and rest a spell till the company come. She mustn’t get too tired, you know,” said the old lady, smiling.

“Well, there! I might have had the sense to think of that myself, and saved you the trouble,” said the delighted Nellie.

Fidelia said nothing, but she cleared a place on the table for the tray, and thanked the old lady with a kiss.

“If you should drop asleep for half an hour it wouldn’t hurt you any,” said Cousin Abby as she closed the door.

And, in the midst of her questioning as to why these people should be so kind to her, Fidelia did fall asleep, and woke only when, an hour later, Nellie returned ready dressed and eager to help her—

“You look quite nice!” was all Nellie allowed herself to say to her friend as they went downstairs together. “Now they’ll see for themselves whether she is beautiful or not,” she was saying to herself; but she knew it would not be wise to say it to Fidelia.

Of course Miss Austin had to be ready to receive their friends; and Fidelia fortunately found Amos entertaining the minister with an account of the day’s sport and the pleasures of a day among the hills.

“Here is Miss Fidelia. She knows all about it,” said the boy; and they had a pleasant half-hour together.

Nellie’s triumph began when Judge Newton asked her whether the tall girl standing talking to the minister was the beautiful Miss Avery they had heard so much about. More than one asked the same question.

“Oh, no,” said Nellie demurely, “that is only my room-mate, Fidelia Marsh! Wait till you see Miss Avery.”

And she had another little triumph when, drawn towards the piano by the exquisite touch of Miss Kent, Fidelia almost unconsciously put out her hand to turn the page of the difficult music she was playing, and kept on turning it to the end. It was the look of surprise which passed between Miss Kent and her cousin that delighted Fidelia’s friend.

“You play, do you not?” said Miss Kent, rising.

“Not as you play. Oh, please don’t go yet!” said Fidelia earnestly.

“Sing something, Ella,” said her cousin. “Sing this”—laying a song open before her. “No, Miss Marsh. I will turn the music. You must only enjoy it.”

And Fidelia did enjoy it, as she had seldom enjoyed music before; growing pale and red by turns, as the thrilling voice rose and fell. For the moment the enjoyment was perfect. When it ceased, Fidelia would have slipped quietly out of the room. Miss Kent rose.

“You sing, I am sure, Miss Marsh?”

“No,” said Fidelia gravely; “I do not sing.”

“Fidelia!” exclaimed Nellie.

“No,” repeated Fidelia; “I don’t sing. I have only just found it out.”

“And what is this Amos has been telling us about your starting the echoes among the hills on your way home to-night?” said Dr Everett, who had drawn near.

“Ithink you can sing,” said Amos. “Oh, yes, I can sing to please Amos!” said Fidelia, trying to speak lightly, but troubled under the eyes of those who had gathered round the piano, and more troubled still by the rush of her own vexed thoughts.

“Is it envy?” she was saying to herself. “Is it pride and jealousy and discontent? Am I going to disappoint Eunice, after all? Oh, I am not good!”

She did not know who proposed it, or how it happened, but in a little Miss Kent seated herself at the piano again, and the young people gathered round her, “to sing something they all could sing,”—a much more enjoyable affair to most uneducated singers than just to sit and listen to fine music. Of course they began with “The Star-spangled Banner;” and if Fidelia’s voice did not ring out quite as it had rung out to please the boys among the hills, it still caused the Boston cousins to exchange surprised glances, thus giving the watchful Nellie another moment of delight. They did not sing long, however; and when Miss Kent rose again, Fidelia moved away to the other end of the room, believing that the pleasure of the evening was over for her.

But it was not. She found herself in a little listening with much interest to the minister and the judge as they discussed a question which had come up before the last ministerial association of the county, and thinking it would be something to tell Eunice about when she went home. In the midst of it a voice said,—

“Miss Fidelia, I have a message for you from your sister.”

“From Eunice?”—and she turned to see Dr Justin Everett standing beside her.

“Yes. I went to Halsey with my brother this morning, and have only just returned. We called to see your sister on our way.”

“She is well?”

“That is part of the message she sent to you. She says you are not to hurry home, as my brother seemed to think you meant to do. You are to stay and have a good time. She does not need you in the least. No; that is not part of her message. But she is going with Mrs Stone to pay a visit of a week over in Northwood, and you are to stay here till that is over. She will write fully to-morrow.”

“I am glad she is strong enough even to think of a visit to Northwood.”

“Yes; and Mrs Stone will take excellent care of her. The change will do her good. And your change will do you good also.”

“It has done me good already.”

Then he gave her another message from his niece, Susie Everett, and told her several items of Halsey news; and then some one came to interrupt their talk; and then the evening went on as all such evenings do, until the guests rose to go away. And Fidelia was saying to herself, while she listened to Nellie’s remarks on things in general, that Eunice and Dr Justin were good friends again, and she was not sure whether she was glad or sorry that it should be so.

Chapter Six.Discontent.In looking back on it afterwards, and in talking it all over with her sister, Fidelia could hardly decide whether she had had more pain or pleasure in the week which followed. It was a time she did not like to think about. There had been no real cause for pain, she acknowledged. She had acknowledged as much as that at the time, and she had known that she ought to be ashamed of herself.That she—Fidelia Marsh—should have a single uncomfortable moment over a faded dress, or the appearance of a last summer’s bonnet, was humiliating—she who had never cared about her clothes! She had never thought much about her clothes in any way. Eunice had always done that for her, as she had done other things. At home she had thought herself as well dressed as her neighbours. At the seminary there had been no time to think about dress; and there had been other faded alpacas there as well as hers. Why should she think about her clothes now? She was ashamed of herself. But it was not clothes altogether. She did not “fit in” among these people. They were different from her—or, rather, she was different from them.Everybody was pleasant and kind. Miss Avery even, whom she liked least, was especially friendly—she seemed to seek her out always. She sat with her on the lawn in the morning, and in the evenings brought a stool and sat at her feet, while they listened to Miss Kent’s music. They walked and talked together; and why should she not like Miss Avery, who seemed to like her and to wish to be with her? Why should she shrink from her questions about Eunice and their home life, and their friendship with the Everetts, and answer them briefly, and go over all that had been spoken between them in her own thoughts afterwards, in fear of having said something that she ought not to have said?She liked Miss Kent, though she was a grave and silent person who did not seem to have much to say to any one. They had their love of music in common, and Fidelia was grateful for Miss Kent’s quietly given hints on that subject, and profited by them. She was at her ease with her, but she was not at ease with Miss Avery.“And why not?” asked Nellie Austin, to whom she one day made the admission. “I’m sure she seems to think everything that is good about you. To-night, when you were sitting together, before the lamps were brought in, Mrs Kent said what friends you seemed to be; and Dr Justin said what a picture you made, sitting there in the fire-light.”“Yes, I guess so! The picture of a hen and a humming-bird!” said Fidelia, laughing. “If he saw anything but Miss Avery and a feather duster it is a wonder. I have no doubt Miss Avery realised how pretty the picture was, as well as he. No, I am not cross nor sarcastic either, and I am willing to act as a set-off to her now and then, if it is to do her any good. But I can’t just say I like quite so much of that kind of thing.”“Fidelia,” said Nellie gravely, “we shall have to let you go fishing again with the boys.”“Yes, let us go. Is it too late to make a plan for to-morrow? We should have to make an early start.”“It is too late to plan for to-morrow. Amos has gone to bed. And, besides, we couldn’t go to-morrow; we are going to Colonel Green’s. And the day after to-morrow we are all going to the Summit; and those who like can go by the way of Smellie’s Brook, and go to the Summit by the other path.”“Well, I will go with the boys, and you had better come with us. That was the most delightful day I have had in Eastwood—the day I had with Amos and his brothers at the brook.”“Thank you, for myself and all the rest. Faithful, what is the matter with you these days?” said Nellie, laying her hand gently on her friend’s hair, “There is something the matter, is there not, dear?”“There must be, if you say so; but I can’t tell you what it is. I must be ‘gettin’ kind o’ nervous,’ as Deacon Ainsworth says of his wife. It’s queer, isn’t it? I, who never knew there were nerves, until I learned it out of a school-book! I guess I want Eunice. She’ll set me all right. I never had any bad feelings yet that she couldn’t deliver me from, in one way or another. Oh, yes; I shall be all right as soon as I see my Eunice!”But she was not quite sure of it, even when she said it.The next day, instead of going with the rest to pay a visit to friends in a neighbouring town, Fidelia chose to stay at home and help cousin Abby with her preparations for the expedition to the Summit, as the highest hill in the neighbourhood was called, and had a better time than if she had gone with the rest. She enjoyed helping Miss Abby, and she enjoyed her talk while the work went on. For Miss Abby Chase saw clearly—had all her life seen clearly—many things which eyes intent only on personal interests might easily have overlooked. Her talk did not flow on in “a straight stream,” so as to become wearisome; but now and then a remark was made, or a word of advice given, or a bit of personal experience told, of which Fidelia made a note, saying to herself: “I must remember to tell Eunice that. How Eunice would like to hear cousin Abby talk!”They had not, for various reasons, been ready to begin “in the cool of the morning,” as was Miss Abby’s custom when there was anything special to do. The day was warm, and, though the work was pleasant work, it was hard work too in a way. But no feeling of weariness could interfere with the satisfaction with which they viewed results. The success was complete.“They will spoil a good housekeeper if they make a schoolmistress of you!”—as Fidelia stood folding her apron, and regarding with admiring eyes a big chicken-pie which Mattie had just brought in from the oven. “But I don’t suppose you’d care about spending your life as a housekeeper, when you might have higher work to do.”“Higher work? Yes, I suppose so. Teaching is either the highest work, or it is drudgery. I suppose it depends upon the teacher,” said Fidelia gravely. “But any sort of work is good if it is needed, and if it is well done—as we have done our work to-day,” added she, smiling.“Yes; and it is something to do well the humblest work, when others are helped by it to do the highest. And then the Lord doesn’t always see ‘high’ and ‘low’ just as we do. And those who just help other folks’ works, and come into other folks’ lives, without having much of a life of their very own, may have a good time too—yes, and a good reward.”“Yes,” said Fidelia, thinking of her sister. “Miss Abby, don’t you go visiting sometimes? Won’t you come to our house and see my sister? She would like to have you, and I am sure you would like each other.”“I should be pleased to visit you and your sister. Yes, I should like her. I like what I have heard about her. I saw her once—she visited here a long time ago.”“Did she? I don’t think I ever knew it. Was she a little girl? Was it with our father that she came?”“No; she was a grown woman—a sweet and beautiful young woman. She stayed two or three days. There was company in the house, and I remember they all went one day to the Summit. It was with Dr Justin Everett that she came.”“Ah!” said Fidelia, sitting suddenly down on the window-seat.They had come into Miss Abby’s room by this time, and the old lady was resting in the rocking-chair while Fidelia lingered, going on with their talk.“It was just about the time when her grandmother grew worse. No, I didn’t see much of her; I had more to do in those days. I saw her, but we did not speak together, and I have nothing special to tell you about her, dear, only that I saw her when she came. I have often thought of her since.”Fidelia sat still, with her chin on her hand and her eyes fixed on the far-away hills; and Miss Abby could not but see the change that had passed over her face. But she did not speak.The old trouble about Eunice was stirring at her heart. Eunice had always helped others; she had only come in for “a part in other folks’ lives,” as Miss Abby had said. Had Eunice “had a good time and a good reward?” She had been at least content during the last few years. Was she content still? Was she grieving over the past, or was she wishing for that which could never be hers?—“for that which is really not worth having or grieving for, if she only knew it!” thought Fidelia, with an angry flush rising to her cheeks, as the thought of Miss Avery, and the interest which Dr Justin seemed to take in her, came to her mind.“She doesn’t care. I don’t think she would care; but, oh, I wish I were quite sure! Surely the Lord would never let that trouble come into her life again, after all she has done and suffered.”She sat long with her eyes fixed on the hills beyond the river, on which the glory of the sunset lay; and when at last she turned to meet the grave looks of Miss Abby, she started and grew red, with a feeling that the old lady must know her thoughts. But Miss Abby only said,—“Think of it! I had forgotten all about the eggs. I must go down again.” And when she had gone out and shut the door, she opened it again to say,—“You had better stay right here in my room, hadn’t you, and rest? There will be some noise in the other part of the house when they all get home. I may go over to see Sally Hanson a minute; I have something to take to her. But I guess you had better stay here.”Whether she went to see Sally Hanson or not, she stayed away a good while, and it was growing dark when she returned. Fidelia still sat with her cheek on her hand, and her eyes on the hills, hardly seen now in the gathering gloom.“Well, dear, are you rested? You have been having a quiet time, haven’t you?”“Oh, yes! I was not tired—only lazy. I suppose I ought to go and brush my hair and change my dress before they all come home. I wonder if I need go down at all? They will be tired enough not to wish to see any one.”“Well, yes, I’d go down a spell, if I were you, for the sake of being friendly.”“Do you suppose I should be missed?” said Fidelia, with a laugh which did not sound so pleasantly to the old lady as Fidelia’s laugh usually did.“You don’t feel very well to-night, do you, dear? I guess you are over-tired, though you don’t know it. Or is there anything else the matter with you, Miss Fidelia?”“If there is I don’t know, or at least I can’t talk about it.”She rose and approached Miss Abby as she spoke, conscious that her words might sound strange; but turned to the window again, and stood looking out into the gloom, and there was silence for a time. Then Miss Abby said gently,—“But you know just where to carry your trouble, dear. Whatever it may be, it isn’t beyond help, is it? How can it be to a Christian?”Fidelia made no answer to this.“Have you been living up to your privileges over there in the seminary, dear? I have always heard that it was a good place in which to grow in knowledge and in grace. You haven’t been so much taken up with your books as to neglect better things, have you? Fidelia, are you a Christian?”There was a moment’s silence before Fidelia answered.“I once thought I was a Christian. Now I do not know—I am not sure.”“And so you got kind of down and discouraged, and no wonder, dear.”Fidelia had to resist a strong impulse to rush away, when Miss Abby rose and came to the window.“But you needn’t be discouraged. If you are not sure of your hope, you must just let it go, and come again to Him who is our only hope, and it will be all right with you. If you have fallen back, it must be because you have failed to ask His help, or your heart has been after other things. But you haven’t done anything, or neglected anything that He will not be glad to forgive if you’ll tell Him of it, dear. You needn’t be a mite discouraged. I’d be glad to help you if I could,” said Miss Abby, laying her hand gently on that of the girl. “I’m an old woman now, and I’ve seen a good many things in my time, and I have suffered some, too, but not any more than I’m glad to look back upon now. Anyhow, it never pays to get discouraged.”“Discouraged!” thought Fidelia. “Why, I think I am wrong all through. I am not sure that even Eunice can set me right now.” Aloud she said—“No; it does no good to be discouraged.”Then they heard the south gate open, and knew that the young people had returned; and, before Fidelia had time to escape, Nellie was calling her name on the stairs, and there was no time for more.Of course they went downstairs together, and heard all about the visit, and whom they had seen, and what they had said and heard and done, and how sorry every one was that Miss Marsh had not gone with them. And no one would have suspected that Miss Marsh was “discouraged,” or even tired, so interested was she in it all. Indeed, she seemed to have more to say than usual, and even became boastful, as Nellie declared, when allusion was made to the preparations for next day’s expedition to the Summit.Miss Avery was even more demonstrative in her friendliness than usual that night; and as she was so much fatigued that she found it necessary to recline on the sofa, she would have Fidelia bring a low seat and sit beside her, saying she had seen enough of all the rest for one day. Fidelia sat down willingly enough, but she would not give up her hand to be caressed, as Miss Avery desired; she was busy covering a ball for Franky; and in a little she found it necessary to go nearer the light, but not before Miss Avery had whispered a few words in her ear.“What a good woman your sister must be! How lovely she must have been when she was young! Dr Justin Everett thinks her nearly perfect.”She had no time to say more. Fidelia rose suddenly, and, without a glance toward her, walked across the room; and Dr Justin, coming in with letters in his hand, alone saw the paleness of her face and the anger in her eyes. Miss Avery rose from the sofa, and in her pretty eager way came forward to claim her letters.“Now, Dr Justin, there must be one at least for me! Do say you have got one for me this time,” said she, clasping her hands imploringly.The doctor laid the letters on the table without a word. It was Nellie who distributed them, and the last one was for Fidelia.“Now you will be happy! It is from your sister,” said she.There were letters for several of the others; and in the interest of receiving and opening them, Fidelia was allowed to slip out of the room unnoticed, and only returned in time to say good-night.“And it must be ‘good-bye’ too, I am afraid, as I must go home to-morrow morning. Eunice wants me. No; she is not sick, but she wants me. I have told Mrs Austin all about it, and she says I ought to go. Amos has promised to take me to the depôt in the morning.”“But our trip to the Summit?”“You must stay for that!”“One day can make no difference!”Fidelia was sorry to miss the day’s pleasure, but a day would make much difference. The letter had been delayed one day already, and her sister had several reasons for wishing her to come home at once.“But your packing! You will have to be up all night. You must let me help you, Miss Marsh! Now say you will,” pleaded Miss Avery with pretty beseeching gestures.Fidelia laughed.“My packing! It is all done already, thank you. You will see the last of me to-night.”It was not quite the last to several of the party. The departure was not so early but that all the family were down, and even Miss Avery had a chance to say good-bye again from the window, as Fidelia and Amos drove off. She proposed that they should wait a little, that she might drive with them, but this was not to be thought of.“Dr Justin wanted to drive you down, but I said I had promised,” said Amos gravely; “you don’t care, do you?”“I should have been very sorry if you had forgotten your promise or broken your word. I would not have cared to trouble Dr Justin Everett.”“Oh, it wouldn’t have troubled him any! He’d as lief come with you as not, I guess. If any one had come, it ought to have been Nellie; but I told her I had something to tell you, and she was very good about it. As for Miss Avery, I guess she didn’t care much about going. You like Miss Avery pretty well, don’t you?”“Oh, yes! Not as I like Nellie, you know. But Miss Avery has been—very—”“Kind and condescending!” said Amos, as Fidelia paused for a word.They both laughed a little, but nothing more was said about Miss Avery. A good deal was said about things in general, but not a word which Nellie and all the rest of them might not have heard; and Fidelia began to think she had misunderstood the boy as to his having something to say to her. But when the horse had been securely fastened at a safe distance from the track, they turned to walk up and down the platform. During the few minutes that remained, Amos said,—“I am going to tell father that I am going to college this fall or next, just as he thinks best.”“Yes, of course,” said Fidelia. “Well?”“That is all; and it isn’t ‘of course’ by a good deal. I had about made up my mind for something else. I was going West, to see how it looked out there, any way.”“Not without your father’s knowledge?”“No—I don’t know as I should have gone with his knowledge and consent. But he’d have let me go, I guess, if I had kept at him, even if he had hated to.”Fidelia shook her head.“That is not the kind of talk I should expect to hear from you, Amos, with such a father as you have.” Amos hung his head, but said,—“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I am going to college, and I am going to do my best. Yes; it is partly to please father, and partly because I see things a little differently. Do you remember what you said to me that day on the hill?”“I am afraid I talked a good deal that day. I don’t think I remember anything particular.”“It was about the honour of having a part in the highest work of all, and about the duty of preparing one’s self to do it in the best way. I am going to have a try for it, any way,” said Amos, with a break in his voice.Fidelia put out her hand and touched his, but she did not speak for a full minute. She was thinking,—“A word of mine! That can’t be—discontented, worldly-minded girl that I have proved myself to be! I am not worthy.” Aloud she said,—“I am glad, Amos. Tell me more.”“It was only a word you said, but it set me thinking; though I don’t see why it should, for mother, and cousin Abby, and even Nellie, have said about the same to me often. I suppose it was because it seemed new as you said it; and I had got kind of used to cousin Abby’s good advice, and even to mother’s. But I made up my mind that I would see the thing through this time, and decide one way or another. What Dr Justin said helped me some. I mean to try and be a good man—a servant of God,” added the boy, speaking with difficulty.“Amos,” said Fidelia, “do you mean that you have become a Christian?”“I mean that I wish to be a Christian, and to have a part in the very highest work, if the Lord will have me for His servant.”“If, Amos? There is no ‘if’ on the Lord’s side.”Then she paused, telling herself that she too had desired to have a share in the highest work, and asking herself whether she had not drawn back. She did not know. She only knew that she was all wrong, and that she too must begin again.“I, too, shall have to decide once for all. Oh, I must!”There was no time for more, for the shriek of the engine was heard in the distance.“Amos, I am so glad! And I am glad you have told me. I wish I knew just the right thing to say to you. I can only say I am glad. I wish you could come and talk with my Eunice. Oh, dear—just as if you hadn’t your father and mother, and cousin Abby! But my first thought is always of my Eunice,” added Fidelia, with an uncertain smile. “Good-bye, dear Amos. Everybody in your home has been so good to me; and I am glad for them all. They will be very happy.”There was not time for another word. As Amos turned from the window as the train moved on, he stumbled on some one—or, rather, some one stumbled on him—and he had no idea who it was till a voice called out,—“Just in time, Amos! A miss is as good as a mile;” and he ran forward in time to catch a glimpse of Dr Justin Everett on the platform of the cars as the train moved on.Fidelia had not seen the approach of Dr Justin; and it was a surprise, to say the least, when he entered the car, and, bidding her “Good morning,” took his seat beside her, as if that had been the most natural thing in the world to do.“I did not know you thought of going to Halsey this morning. What about the Summit?” said Fidelia.“It looks ungrateful to leave them, does it not? But it could not be helped; I did not know till late last night that I was expected elsewhere this morning. And I am at least no more to blame than you are.”Fidelia made no answer to that. They could see the Summit as they turned a curve among the hills.“It looks pleasant up there!” said she.“Yes, with the morning sunshine on it.”“I am sorry it happened that I could not go up with Nellie and the rest. I should have enjoyed it, and it would have been something always to remember.”“Yes, it would have been something to remember,” said Dr Justin.The sound of his voice had quite changed, and the look on his face also, Fidelia thought, as she glanced up at him.“Have you ever been at the Summit?” said she; and then she remembered.“Yes. Once I was on the Summit,” he answered gravely; and he did not remove his eyes from the mountain while it was in sight, nor did a word pass between them for some time after that. It was Dr Justin who spoke first, and his first words were about her friend Amos.“I should like to take him West with me; and your friend Jabez Ainsworth as well. They are bound to go there first or last.”“Oh, but you must not think of such a thing! His father would not like it. Amos is going to please his father now, he says, and go to college. Don’t speak of his going West, please.”“Well, no; not just at present; but when these boys are ‘thoroughly furnished,’ as there is good hope they may be in time, the great West is the place for them, and for many more of their sort. They are needed there now, and will be needed still more in the future.”“I like Amos. He will do his part well wherever he is,” said Fidelia.“Yes, I am sure he will.”“And Jabez, too, in a different way. Jabez and I have always been good friends.”“Yes, I know. You have helped them both.”“I have helped Jabez with his arithmetic and grammar, and with good advice, too, sometimes,” added she, laughing; “but as for Amos, if I have ever helped him, it has been without knowing it.”“That is the best kind of help to give, I think,” said Dr Justin, smiling.The Austin family was a safe subject to discuss, and they held to it for awhile. Fidelia told about her good fortune in having Nellie for her room-mate at the seminary, and of the many pleasant things they had enjoyed together during the year. When she thought about it afterwards, she wondered at the ease with which she had talked with him, and hoped she had not talked too much.As they drew near to the last stopping-place before reaching Halsey, Dr Justin stooped to lift his handbag, saying,—“My brother is waiting for me here, I think. We are going to M— to see a patient of his, about whom he is anxious. Have you a message to send to any one in Eastwood: I go back there to-night.”“I shall send a message to-morrow by mail, I thank you,” said Fidelia a little stiffly. She was indignant with herself in feeling a little disappointed that he was not going on to Halsey.“Well, good-bye. We ought to be friends, you and I, and we shall be friends in time.” And then he was gone.

In looking back on it afterwards, and in talking it all over with her sister, Fidelia could hardly decide whether she had had more pain or pleasure in the week which followed. It was a time she did not like to think about. There had been no real cause for pain, she acknowledged. She had acknowledged as much as that at the time, and she had known that she ought to be ashamed of herself.

That she—Fidelia Marsh—should have a single uncomfortable moment over a faded dress, or the appearance of a last summer’s bonnet, was humiliating—she who had never cared about her clothes! She had never thought much about her clothes in any way. Eunice had always done that for her, as she had done other things. At home she had thought herself as well dressed as her neighbours. At the seminary there had been no time to think about dress; and there had been other faded alpacas there as well as hers. Why should she think about her clothes now? She was ashamed of herself. But it was not clothes altogether. She did not “fit in” among these people. They were different from her—or, rather, she was different from them.

Everybody was pleasant and kind. Miss Avery even, whom she liked least, was especially friendly—she seemed to seek her out always. She sat with her on the lawn in the morning, and in the evenings brought a stool and sat at her feet, while they listened to Miss Kent’s music. They walked and talked together; and why should she not like Miss Avery, who seemed to like her and to wish to be with her? Why should she shrink from her questions about Eunice and their home life, and their friendship with the Everetts, and answer them briefly, and go over all that had been spoken between them in her own thoughts afterwards, in fear of having said something that she ought not to have said?

She liked Miss Kent, though she was a grave and silent person who did not seem to have much to say to any one. They had their love of music in common, and Fidelia was grateful for Miss Kent’s quietly given hints on that subject, and profited by them. She was at her ease with her, but she was not at ease with Miss Avery.

“And why not?” asked Nellie Austin, to whom she one day made the admission. “I’m sure she seems to think everything that is good about you. To-night, when you were sitting together, before the lamps were brought in, Mrs Kent said what friends you seemed to be; and Dr Justin said what a picture you made, sitting there in the fire-light.”

“Yes, I guess so! The picture of a hen and a humming-bird!” said Fidelia, laughing. “If he saw anything but Miss Avery and a feather duster it is a wonder. I have no doubt Miss Avery realised how pretty the picture was, as well as he. No, I am not cross nor sarcastic either, and I am willing to act as a set-off to her now and then, if it is to do her any good. But I can’t just say I like quite so much of that kind of thing.”

“Fidelia,” said Nellie gravely, “we shall have to let you go fishing again with the boys.”

“Yes, let us go. Is it too late to make a plan for to-morrow? We should have to make an early start.”

“It is too late to plan for to-morrow. Amos has gone to bed. And, besides, we couldn’t go to-morrow; we are going to Colonel Green’s. And the day after to-morrow we are all going to the Summit; and those who like can go by the way of Smellie’s Brook, and go to the Summit by the other path.”

“Well, I will go with the boys, and you had better come with us. That was the most delightful day I have had in Eastwood—the day I had with Amos and his brothers at the brook.”

“Thank you, for myself and all the rest. Faithful, what is the matter with you these days?” said Nellie, laying her hand gently on her friend’s hair, “There is something the matter, is there not, dear?”

“There must be, if you say so; but I can’t tell you what it is. I must be ‘gettin’ kind o’ nervous,’ as Deacon Ainsworth says of his wife. It’s queer, isn’t it? I, who never knew there were nerves, until I learned it out of a school-book! I guess I want Eunice. She’ll set me all right. I never had any bad feelings yet that she couldn’t deliver me from, in one way or another. Oh, yes; I shall be all right as soon as I see my Eunice!”

But she was not quite sure of it, even when she said it.

The next day, instead of going with the rest to pay a visit to friends in a neighbouring town, Fidelia chose to stay at home and help cousin Abby with her preparations for the expedition to the Summit, as the highest hill in the neighbourhood was called, and had a better time than if she had gone with the rest. She enjoyed helping Miss Abby, and she enjoyed her talk while the work went on. For Miss Abby Chase saw clearly—had all her life seen clearly—many things which eyes intent only on personal interests might easily have overlooked. Her talk did not flow on in “a straight stream,” so as to become wearisome; but now and then a remark was made, or a word of advice given, or a bit of personal experience told, of which Fidelia made a note, saying to herself: “I must remember to tell Eunice that. How Eunice would like to hear cousin Abby talk!”

They had not, for various reasons, been ready to begin “in the cool of the morning,” as was Miss Abby’s custom when there was anything special to do. The day was warm, and, though the work was pleasant work, it was hard work too in a way. But no feeling of weariness could interfere with the satisfaction with which they viewed results. The success was complete.

“They will spoil a good housekeeper if they make a schoolmistress of you!”—as Fidelia stood folding her apron, and regarding with admiring eyes a big chicken-pie which Mattie had just brought in from the oven. “But I don’t suppose you’d care about spending your life as a housekeeper, when you might have higher work to do.”

“Higher work? Yes, I suppose so. Teaching is either the highest work, or it is drudgery. I suppose it depends upon the teacher,” said Fidelia gravely. “But any sort of work is good if it is needed, and if it is well done—as we have done our work to-day,” added she, smiling.

“Yes; and it is something to do well the humblest work, when others are helped by it to do the highest. And then the Lord doesn’t always see ‘high’ and ‘low’ just as we do. And those who just help other folks’ works, and come into other folks’ lives, without having much of a life of their very own, may have a good time too—yes, and a good reward.”

“Yes,” said Fidelia, thinking of her sister. “Miss Abby, don’t you go visiting sometimes? Won’t you come to our house and see my sister? She would like to have you, and I am sure you would like each other.”

“I should be pleased to visit you and your sister. Yes, I should like her. I like what I have heard about her. I saw her once—she visited here a long time ago.”

“Did she? I don’t think I ever knew it. Was she a little girl? Was it with our father that she came?”

“No; she was a grown woman—a sweet and beautiful young woman. She stayed two or three days. There was company in the house, and I remember they all went one day to the Summit. It was with Dr Justin Everett that she came.”

“Ah!” said Fidelia, sitting suddenly down on the window-seat.

They had come into Miss Abby’s room by this time, and the old lady was resting in the rocking-chair while Fidelia lingered, going on with their talk.

“It was just about the time when her grandmother grew worse. No, I didn’t see much of her; I had more to do in those days. I saw her, but we did not speak together, and I have nothing special to tell you about her, dear, only that I saw her when she came. I have often thought of her since.”

Fidelia sat still, with her chin on her hand and her eyes fixed on the far-away hills; and Miss Abby could not but see the change that had passed over her face. But she did not speak.

The old trouble about Eunice was stirring at her heart. Eunice had always helped others; she had only come in for “a part in other folks’ lives,” as Miss Abby had said. Had Eunice “had a good time and a good reward?” She had been at least content during the last few years. Was she content still? Was she grieving over the past, or was she wishing for that which could never be hers?—“for that which is really not worth having or grieving for, if she only knew it!” thought Fidelia, with an angry flush rising to her cheeks, as the thought of Miss Avery, and the interest which Dr Justin seemed to take in her, came to her mind.

“She doesn’t care. I don’t think she would care; but, oh, I wish I were quite sure! Surely the Lord would never let that trouble come into her life again, after all she has done and suffered.”

She sat long with her eyes fixed on the hills beyond the river, on which the glory of the sunset lay; and when at last she turned to meet the grave looks of Miss Abby, she started and grew red, with a feeling that the old lady must know her thoughts. But Miss Abby only said,—

“Think of it! I had forgotten all about the eggs. I must go down again.” And when she had gone out and shut the door, she opened it again to say,—“You had better stay right here in my room, hadn’t you, and rest? There will be some noise in the other part of the house when they all get home. I may go over to see Sally Hanson a minute; I have something to take to her. But I guess you had better stay here.”

Whether she went to see Sally Hanson or not, she stayed away a good while, and it was growing dark when she returned. Fidelia still sat with her cheek on her hand, and her eyes on the hills, hardly seen now in the gathering gloom.

“Well, dear, are you rested? You have been having a quiet time, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes! I was not tired—only lazy. I suppose I ought to go and brush my hair and change my dress before they all come home. I wonder if I need go down at all? They will be tired enough not to wish to see any one.”

“Well, yes, I’d go down a spell, if I were you, for the sake of being friendly.”

“Do you suppose I should be missed?” said Fidelia, with a laugh which did not sound so pleasantly to the old lady as Fidelia’s laugh usually did.

“You don’t feel very well to-night, do you, dear? I guess you are over-tired, though you don’t know it. Or is there anything else the matter with you, Miss Fidelia?”

“If there is I don’t know, or at least I can’t talk about it.”

She rose and approached Miss Abby as she spoke, conscious that her words might sound strange; but turned to the window again, and stood looking out into the gloom, and there was silence for a time. Then Miss Abby said gently,—

“But you know just where to carry your trouble, dear. Whatever it may be, it isn’t beyond help, is it? How can it be to a Christian?”

Fidelia made no answer to this.

“Have you been living up to your privileges over there in the seminary, dear? I have always heard that it was a good place in which to grow in knowledge and in grace. You haven’t been so much taken up with your books as to neglect better things, have you? Fidelia, are you a Christian?”

There was a moment’s silence before Fidelia answered.

“I once thought I was a Christian. Now I do not know—I am not sure.”

“And so you got kind of down and discouraged, and no wonder, dear.”

Fidelia had to resist a strong impulse to rush away, when Miss Abby rose and came to the window.

“But you needn’t be discouraged. If you are not sure of your hope, you must just let it go, and come again to Him who is our only hope, and it will be all right with you. If you have fallen back, it must be because you have failed to ask His help, or your heart has been after other things. But you haven’t done anything, or neglected anything that He will not be glad to forgive if you’ll tell Him of it, dear. You needn’t be a mite discouraged. I’d be glad to help you if I could,” said Miss Abby, laying her hand gently on that of the girl. “I’m an old woman now, and I’ve seen a good many things in my time, and I have suffered some, too, but not any more than I’m glad to look back upon now. Anyhow, it never pays to get discouraged.”

“Discouraged!” thought Fidelia. “Why, I think I am wrong all through. I am not sure that even Eunice can set me right now.” Aloud she said—“No; it does no good to be discouraged.”

Then they heard the south gate open, and knew that the young people had returned; and, before Fidelia had time to escape, Nellie was calling her name on the stairs, and there was no time for more.

Of course they went downstairs together, and heard all about the visit, and whom they had seen, and what they had said and heard and done, and how sorry every one was that Miss Marsh had not gone with them. And no one would have suspected that Miss Marsh was “discouraged,” or even tired, so interested was she in it all. Indeed, she seemed to have more to say than usual, and even became boastful, as Nellie declared, when allusion was made to the preparations for next day’s expedition to the Summit.

Miss Avery was even more demonstrative in her friendliness than usual that night; and as she was so much fatigued that she found it necessary to recline on the sofa, she would have Fidelia bring a low seat and sit beside her, saying she had seen enough of all the rest for one day. Fidelia sat down willingly enough, but she would not give up her hand to be caressed, as Miss Avery desired; she was busy covering a ball for Franky; and in a little she found it necessary to go nearer the light, but not before Miss Avery had whispered a few words in her ear.

“What a good woman your sister must be! How lovely she must have been when she was young! Dr Justin Everett thinks her nearly perfect.”

She had no time to say more. Fidelia rose suddenly, and, without a glance toward her, walked across the room; and Dr Justin, coming in with letters in his hand, alone saw the paleness of her face and the anger in her eyes. Miss Avery rose from the sofa, and in her pretty eager way came forward to claim her letters.

“Now, Dr Justin, there must be one at least for me! Do say you have got one for me this time,” said she, clasping her hands imploringly.

The doctor laid the letters on the table without a word. It was Nellie who distributed them, and the last one was for Fidelia.

“Now you will be happy! It is from your sister,” said she.

There were letters for several of the others; and in the interest of receiving and opening them, Fidelia was allowed to slip out of the room unnoticed, and only returned in time to say good-night.

“And it must be ‘good-bye’ too, I am afraid, as I must go home to-morrow morning. Eunice wants me. No; she is not sick, but she wants me. I have told Mrs Austin all about it, and she says I ought to go. Amos has promised to take me to the depôt in the morning.”

“But our trip to the Summit?”

“You must stay for that!”

“One day can make no difference!”

Fidelia was sorry to miss the day’s pleasure, but a day would make much difference. The letter had been delayed one day already, and her sister had several reasons for wishing her to come home at once.

“But your packing! You will have to be up all night. You must let me help you, Miss Marsh! Now say you will,” pleaded Miss Avery with pretty beseeching gestures.

Fidelia laughed.

“My packing! It is all done already, thank you. You will see the last of me to-night.”

It was not quite the last to several of the party. The departure was not so early but that all the family were down, and even Miss Avery had a chance to say good-bye again from the window, as Fidelia and Amos drove off. She proposed that they should wait a little, that she might drive with them, but this was not to be thought of.

“Dr Justin wanted to drive you down, but I said I had promised,” said Amos gravely; “you don’t care, do you?”

“I should have been very sorry if you had forgotten your promise or broken your word. I would not have cared to trouble Dr Justin Everett.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t have troubled him any! He’d as lief come with you as not, I guess. If any one had come, it ought to have been Nellie; but I told her I had something to tell you, and she was very good about it. As for Miss Avery, I guess she didn’t care much about going. You like Miss Avery pretty well, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! Not as I like Nellie, you know. But Miss Avery has been—very—”

“Kind and condescending!” said Amos, as Fidelia paused for a word.

They both laughed a little, but nothing more was said about Miss Avery. A good deal was said about things in general, but not a word which Nellie and all the rest of them might not have heard; and Fidelia began to think she had misunderstood the boy as to his having something to say to her. But when the horse had been securely fastened at a safe distance from the track, they turned to walk up and down the platform. During the few minutes that remained, Amos said,—

“I am going to tell father that I am going to college this fall or next, just as he thinks best.”

“Yes, of course,” said Fidelia. “Well?”

“That is all; and it isn’t ‘of course’ by a good deal. I had about made up my mind for something else. I was going West, to see how it looked out there, any way.”

“Not without your father’s knowledge?”

“No—I don’t know as I should have gone with his knowledge and consent. But he’d have let me go, I guess, if I had kept at him, even if he had hated to.”

Fidelia shook her head.

“That is not the kind of talk I should expect to hear from you, Amos, with such a father as you have.” Amos hung his head, but said,—“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I am going to college, and I am going to do my best. Yes; it is partly to please father, and partly because I see things a little differently. Do you remember what you said to me that day on the hill?”

“I am afraid I talked a good deal that day. I don’t think I remember anything particular.”

“It was about the honour of having a part in the highest work of all, and about the duty of preparing one’s self to do it in the best way. I am going to have a try for it, any way,” said Amos, with a break in his voice.

Fidelia put out her hand and touched his, but she did not speak for a full minute. She was thinking,—“A word of mine! That can’t be—discontented, worldly-minded girl that I have proved myself to be! I am not worthy.” Aloud she said,—“I am glad, Amos. Tell me more.”

“It was only a word you said, but it set me thinking; though I don’t see why it should, for mother, and cousin Abby, and even Nellie, have said about the same to me often. I suppose it was because it seemed new as you said it; and I had got kind of used to cousin Abby’s good advice, and even to mother’s. But I made up my mind that I would see the thing through this time, and decide one way or another. What Dr Justin said helped me some. I mean to try and be a good man—a servant of God,” added the boy, speaking with difficulty.

“Amos,” said Fidelia, “do you mean that you have become a Christian?”

“I mean that I wish to be a Christian, and to have a part in the very highest work, if the Lord will have me for His servant.”

“If, Amos? There is no ‘if’ on the Lord’s side.”

Then she paused, telling herself that she too had desired to have a share in the highest work, and asking herself whether she had not drawn back. She did not know. She only knew that she was all wrong, and that she too must begin again.

“I, too, shall have to decide once for all. Oh, I must!”

There was no time for more, for the shriek of the engine was heard in the distance.

“Amos, I am so glad! And I am glad you have told me. I wish I knew just the right thing to say to you. I can only say I am glad. I wish you could come and talk with my Eunice. Oh, dear—just as if you hadn’t your father and mother, and cousin Abby! But my first thought is always of my Eunice,” added Fidelia, with an uncertain smile. “Good-bye, dear Amos. Everybody in your home has been so good to me; and I am glad for them all. They will be very happy.”

There was not time for another word. As Amos turned from the window as the train moved on, he stumbled on some one—or, rather, some one stumbled on him—and he had no idea who it was till a voice called out,—

“Just in time, Amos! A miss is as good as a mile;” and he ran forward in time to catch a glimpse of Dr Justin Everett on the platform of the cars as the train moved on.

Fidelia had not seen the approach of Dr Justin; and it was a surprise, to say the least, when he entered the car, and, bidding her “Good morning,” took his seat beside her, as if that had been the most natural thing in the world to do.

“I did not know you thought of going to Halsey this morning. What about the Summit?” said Fidelia.

“It looks ungrateful to leave them, does it not? But it could not be helped; I did not know till late last night that I was expected elsewhere this morning. And I am at least no more to blame than you are.”

Fidelia made no answer to that. They could see the Summit as they turned a curve among the hills.

“It looks pleasant up there!” said she.

“Yes, with the morning sunshine on it.”

“I am sorry it happened that I could not go up with Nellie and the rest. I should have enjoyed it, and it would have been something always to remember.”

“Yes, it would have been something to remember,” said Dr Justin.

The sound of his voice had quite changed, and the look on his face also, Fidelia thought, as she glanced up at him.

“Have you ever been at the Summit?” said she; and then she remembered.

“Yes. Once I was on the Summit,” he answered gravely; and he did not remove his eyes from the mountain while it was in sight, nor did a word pass between them for some time after that. It was Dr Justin who spoke first, and his first words were about her friend Amos.

“I should like to take him West with me; and your friend Jabez Ainsworth as well. They are bound to go there first or last.”

“Oh, but you must not think of such a thing! His father would not like it. Amos is going to please his father now, he says, and go to college. Don’t speak of his going West, please.”

“Well, no; not just at present; but when these boys are ‘thoroughly furnished,’ as there is good hope they may be in time, the great West is the place for them, and for many more of their sort. They are needed there now, and will be needed still more in the future.”

“I like Amos. He will do his part well wherever he is,” said Fidelia.

“Yes, I am sure he will.”

“And Jabez, too, in a different way. Jabez and I have always been good friends.”

“Yes, I know. You have helped them both.”

“I have helped Jabez with his arithmetic and grammar, and with good advice, too, sometimes,” added she, laughing; “but as for Amos, if I have ever helped him, it has been without knowing it.”

“That is the best kind of help to give, I think,” said Dr Justin, smiling.

The Austin family was a safe subject to discuss, and they held to it for awhile. Fidelia told about her good fortune in having Nellie for her room-mate at the seminary, and of the many pleasant things they had enjoyed together during the year. When she thought about it afterwards, she wondered at the ease with which she had talked with him, and hoped she had not talked too much.

As they drew near to the last stopping-place before reaching Halsey, Dr Justin stooped to lift his handbag, saying,—

“My brother is waiting for me here, I think. We are going to M— to see a patient of his, about whom he is anxious. Have you a message to send to any one in Eastwood: I go back there to-night.”

“I shall send a message to-morrow by mail, I thank you,” said Fidelia a little stiffly. She was indignant with herself in feeling a little disappointed that he was not going on to Halsey.

“Well, good-bye. We ought to be friends, you and I, and we shall be friends in time.” And then he was gone.

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